


Screw Tradition

by EasyTiga



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bottom Sam, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Dean, Supportive Sam, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:15:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28134540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EasyTiga/pseuds/EasyTiga
Summary: Dean wasn't meant to be born an omega. He wasn't meant to produce slick or have heats or smell like flowers on a sunny day. He was meant to pop a knot, smell like whisky and gun oil or some other badass smell. Nothing he can do about it, though.Good thing he has Sam. His amazing alpha little brother who chose to screw tradition alongside him.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 18
Kudos: 158





	1. Biology Sucks

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how often this has been done, but I've had the idea in my mind for a while and I'm happy with how it turned out. So, I hope you like it. :D

Presenting as an omega when he turned fourteen sucked. Dean didn't want to be an omega. He didn't feel like an omega. He didn't act like an omega. He didn't have any desire to bear children or have a knot locked up tight in his ass while some Alpha pumped him full of cum and told him how they couldn't wait to get him pregnant. The thought of it made him sick, made him rage, made him sprint through the forest until his legs burned and his pillow called to him. 

It's not that he has anything against omegas or whatever. There's nothing wrong with being one. It's just not his speed, not what he feels he was supposed to present as. He wasn't supposed to produce slick. He was supposed to pop a knot. He wasn't supposed to smell sweet. He was supposed to smell gritty and earthy and radiate power. 

Omegas are fine. He's got no issues with them or what they represent or what they do with their lives. That's their business. He just doesn't see himself as one. 

So when he got his first heat at sixteen, Dean barricaded himself in a small bathroom, kept the tub filled with cold water, ignored the biological urges telling him to find an alpha and let them in. He refused to do it, told those thoughts to screw themselves. He breathed in deep, fought and fought through hours of intense heat and crippling need that he barely had the capacity to make heads or tails of at that point. 

Everything ached by the end of it. He was so hungry, so exhausted, but he managed to drag his way back to the motel he was staying at with his family, immediately checking on his little brother Sam before fixing himself something to eat. The first heat had been Hell, but coming out the other side of it with his choices intact gave him the confidence to push on, tell his biology to suck it and take a hike at the same time. 

Omegas aren't treated like crap or like they need saving. No one ever cared that he was a hunter and an omega at the same time. It only really crossed weres minds when an omega was carrying pups and therefore endangering more than one life. And since Dean had zero intentions of ever getting pregnant in his entire life, that wasn't going to be an issue for him. 

What was an issue for him was Sam presenting as an alpha at fourteen. 

While omegas, again, aren't second class citizens, they are biologically pre-dispositioned to be weaker and softer than alphas. Dean had hoped that Sam would either present as beta or omega so that his role as the protector wasn't challenged. Dean liked looking after Sam, keeping him safe, being… stronger than him. 

The world had other plans. Sam quickly grew into his alpha strength, shot up like a freaking tree and Dean felt like a god damned shrimp next to him. It didn't stop Dean from jumping in harm's way for him or doing his level best to floor Sam in sparring matches, which Sam was tuned in enough to not purposefully allow him to win. 

Sam was supportive of his need to not to be underestimated or overlooked now that Sam was biologically at least ten times stronger than him, but he drew the line at Dean intentionally shoving him out of the way to take the blow to the face that knocked him for six. Didn't matter that Dean was 20 and Sam was 16 or that Dean had far more battle experience, Sam begged for him to either get out of the way or trust him to look out for himself. 

Obviously, Dean didn't listen to him. 

"So, what, you think now that you're an alpha, you suddenly get to call the shots?" 

"You know that's got nothin' to do with it, Dean. Don't be like that."

"And there you go again, tellin' me what to do. What if I want to be like that, Sam? Huh? What if I want to take the hits? Isn't that my choice?" 

"Dean, please, I can't focus on my own fights if I'm worried about you getting hurt. I heal naturally--I can get shot and be fine in the next minute! You can't do that. You can get seriously hurt, and I don't know... I don't know what… Please, just… I need you to help me out here."

"Okay, Sammy. Okay." 

Son of a bitch and his damn eyes turning Dean's brain to mush and making the decision for him. 

Sam went into his first rut a couple of weeks later. Building up to it, he became very territorial of Dean, squaring up to alphas that got too close, pretty much sewing them together at the hip, rubbing his scent on him and smelling his hair and other weird shit whenever he was close enough to take a whiff. 

When his rut started, Sam told Dean to go away, to leave him alone, to seriously go anywhere else. Dean asked what Sam meant. Sam told him, and Dean went for a very long run. His heart hammered in his chest, his head pounded, his paws burned and he felt so fucking sick he passed out in the middle of the woods. 

At the break of dawn, Dean made his way back, found Sam sitting with his head in his hands, looking guilty and ashamed. 

"I'm your mate, huh?" 

Sam had nodded. 

"You wanted to knot me last night, didn't you?"

Sam nodded again, guilt piling on. 

"I can't, Sammy—I—"

"I know," he said, shoulders heaving. "I know, Dean, and I'd sooner rip my own heart out than do that to you."

"You don't mean that."

Sam stared up at him. 

"I do. You're so strong, Dean. You fight every heat you have, fight to be the were you want to be, and I admire you so much for that." 

"Hug me, Sam, that was beautiful."

"I'm serious," Sam replied, shaking his head. "I think it's probably best if I leave—"

"Yeah, that's not happening," Dean stated firmly, cutting him off. "We'll just have to get you one of those cones for your junk so you can't pin me down and have your wicked way with me." 

"That's not funny." A veil of fear cast over Sam's eyes, throat tight. "What if I end up hurting you?" 

Dean scoffed. "Please. Are you done fluffing your feathers here or—"

In a flash, Sam had him pinned to the wall, noses bumping as he bent his head, hair shaking out. 

"This is not a joke, Dean. It doesn't matter how good of a fighter you are. It doesn't matter how good you are at hunting. If it comes to that, all it takes is this. This is easy for me, don't you see that?" 

Dean said nothing. Stared hard and unrelenting. 

"And I'm only gonna get older and stronger and who knows if I'll have the strength to stop myself when you… smell like this." 

Sam paused, swallowed, shook his head again. 

"That's why it's better if I just leave, get far away and—"

Not really knowing what he was going to do, Dean kissed him. It slackened the grip. Dean took advantage, grabbed Sam's face, bit his lip, pried his mouth open, thrust his tongue in. He tasted him, took the breath out of his lungs, backed him up onto the bed and laid him out. 

One minute they were grinding on each other. The next, Dean had Sam's legs spread, over his shoulders, ass lifted off the bed as he fucked him hard and fast with the help of his own slick. Sam took it like a champ, hard, long cock leaking onto his sweat-slick skin as they fucked and fucked until Dean shot deep inside Sam's body, a feeling of right flooding him with an excruciating well of euphoria that had him passing out on Sam's chest. 

When he came to, they talked about it. 

"So that happened," Dean said, standing at the open doorway to the bathroom.

Sam looked thoughtful but otherwise content. 

"I can live with this." 

"Whaddya mean?" 

Sam gestured between them. 

"This. Being the bitch or whatever." 

"You're not a bitch. I mean, you are a bitch, but you're not—"

"I got it. And I know that. But I'm okay with this. With us. This whole," Sam twirls his finger in the air. "Switcharoo or whatever. You're always saying screw tradition, right?" 

Dean nodded, teeth grazing his bottom lip. He felt like there was more to discuss, like the out of the blue romp between siblings that hadn't been a thought in his mind from day one. But then, that may have been because he convinced himself it could never happen, not that way. He didn't want that, wouldn't want that, ever. So there was a chance he repressed that part. 

And also, Sam's 16. While that may not gift him with a one-way ticket to the slammer—the perks of being an omega and the legal age being as soon as either alpha or omega presents—he still felt like a pervert. 

"O-kay. Well, I'm gross, so don't wait up," Dean told him, then showered. 

They got older. Stuff happened. Sam's ruts got more intense now that they had some semblance of a bond. Dean couldn't be around him when they hit. He ran through the woods all night, kicking up dirt, snapping twigs and howling at the moon while Sam writhed and snapped his jaws, limbs bound tight to the bed. 

One time, there was a near-miss that shook Dean to his core. 

Sam's rut had come out of nowhere. He bent Dean over the table in the fancy hotel they put themselves up in for the night as a treat to themselves for working so hard. His hands were brutal, tearing Dean's clothes off, breath hot in his ear, cock nuding over the skin of his ass. Dean had tried to get away, tried to reason with Sam, break through the haze of want and need surely enveloping him to reach the brother he knew. 

The desperation breached the void, woke Sam up and he moved away, told Dean to run, to leave, to shift and take off. 

Dean did. He didn't think, just left, fear crippling him the moment he reached the woods. His legs gave out, dirt clinging to the fur of his stomach as he just laid there, reliving that helplessness over and over again, feeling Sam bearing down on him, bending and shifting him like he was a rubber band, the musk and eagerness of his engorged cock making Dean gag on air and fight to make it out with his body unspoiled. 

Sam didn't talk to him for two weeks after that. The guilt was too much. He couldn't look at Dean without seeing what he almost did. Dean was okay with it. He needed time himself to unpack how close Sam was to knotting him. It led to Dean distancing himself from Sam, physically. He was there for him. It wasn't the same, though. Sam wasn't going to try to initiate contact, which gave Dean all the space he needed to put up walls, block out his own urges to be close to Sam, to taste his skin, to take him and feel the power under his hands submitting to his will. 

He didn't have control. Sam let him have control. There was a difference. Sam could turn the tables at any point, bend him, break him, use him, violate his body in a way he didn't want. 

It wasn't his fault. They were both fighting what their biologies told them they needed to do, a constant battle that ran them ragged. Dean was no different during his heats, sitting in wide buckets full of ice, ignoring the empty feeling that closed up his throat and left him parched, screaming at his brain to shut up about the combination of Sam, his alpha, and the knot that comes with him. 

He doesn't want it. His body does, not caring that it makes him feel sick, makes him hate himself, makes him split his knuckles on walls and cry tears of rage as he peels off another soiled pair of boxers and tosses them in the wash. His body doesn't give a shit. All it wants is what it's been programmed to want. A knot and to bear children. Both of which give Dean the skivvies and the terrifying thought of breasts blooming on his chest to feed little rugrats with. 

Three months pass before Dean's comfortable with Sam being close enough to reach out and touch him. 

Another month passes before he lets him stroke their fingers together and smell his scent to calm his nerves after a pretty intense battle that nearly saw Dean's throat getting slit. 

Two months proceeding that, Dean shoved Sam against a wall and plundered his mouth for what felt like hours, and Sam let him take and take and take, keeping his hands flat and braced behind him until Dean told him it was okay to touch him. Sam let out a desperate whine, pulling Dean into him, burying his nose in his neck and just breathing him in as Dean rubbed his back and told him it was okay, they were okay, he wasn't leaving, he didn't blame him, they both just needed time. 

They didn't move for an embarrassingly long time. Like, stupidly embarrassing. So embarrassing that they were heckled for gross amounts of public displays of affection. Instead of agreeing with them, though, Dean told them to take a fucking picture or move along, pressing Sam harder against him and scritching his fingers through his hair.

Sam broke, kept apologising. Dean told him he only had to be sorry if he was the one in charge when it happened, and Sam couldn't argue with that. 

When they felt like they could part enough to move, they found some dime-a-dozen no-name, probably rat-infested shithole motel because it was several paces away from them, paid for a couple of hours, stumbled into the room, losing threads as they went. The times where Dean didn't feel disgusted with himself when he produced slick upon becoming aroused was when it was a thoroughly convenient lubricant to prep Sam with, the natural properties easing Sam's walls apart, allowing for Dean to slide in smooth as anything. 

It was desperate. Quick and hard and oh-so-good, Dean's lip caught between his teeth as Sam clenched around him. Sam's nails clawed down his back. He grunted, folded his arms around Sam's neck and pressed them harder together, teeth nipping at Sam's ear, breathing hot on the shell as he pumped his hips. More slick smeared his thighs and the sheets. Sam groaned with want from the smell, ankles locking at the small of Dean's back. 

Sam bit off his name, pitched up to lick and suckle on Dean's neck, scenting him, grazing the flesh with his teeth. That was something they hadn't done. No bites. Bites would seal the deal. Dean was afraid that if he became Sam's omega, Sam wouldn't have the capacity to control his urges to turn the tables. 

"Need you, Dean," Sam said, reminding him of what they were doing. The plea in his voice sent shivers down Dean's spine. "Always you. Only you. Yours forever," he stated, pulling him in as deep as he could go and grinding down. 

Dean's eyes rolled into the back of his head from the searing clutch of Sam's hole. He missed that more than he wanted to admit. Still can't believe he got to have it in the first place. They weren't right. It wasn't right. But dammit it felt right. Every time Sam said his name in that breathy, hoarse way. Every time Sam dug his claws in deeper. Every time Sam's toes curled far enough to flirt with the skin of his ass. Every time Sam squeezed his eyes shut in pleasure and swallowed from the intensity. All of it just felt right, and Dean didn't want anything to get in the way of that. 

He didn't want to risk letting Sam bite him, claim him as his own, his omega, if it could change them. Change what they have. He likes what they have. 

"I won't hurt you," Sam told him, bumping their noses together. "I won't." 

The you almost did lingered in the space between them, unspoken. Sam took it on the chin, begged for a kiss with his eyes and Dean accepted, letting Sam taste his mouth and put across with actions what neither of them wanted to voice, kissing Dean long and desperate, running big hands down his back, gripping him tight and pressing him down, assisting the flow of his hips to fuck deeper, hit harder. Hard enough to rip a moan out of Sam's throat. 

He was panting, sweat running from his hairline to his chin. His neck was glistening. His brows were glinting with perspiration, eyelashes fluttering closed as he locked their lips and sucked on the plump swell. Sam squeezed him, kept him still, spreading his legs and holding them up so Dean could churn his hips, grind down into him, fill him out and fill him up and Sam keened low in his throat, smacked down on the meat of Dean's ass and pleaded for him to come. 

Dean may have wanted it to last longer, but that was all she wrote. His thighs spasmed, ass clenching tight and fingers biting into Sam's broad, heaving shoulders. Sam rocked him through it, spilling a slick stream onto his chest and neck and practically everywhere else with the way he was snapping them together.

It was a lot. 

Sam kept him up. Didn't let him fall. Maybe he was concerned about the mess. Dean wiped him off with the sheet, told him to deal with it. Sam offered a small huff and bodily carried him to the bathroom to shower. Dean's legs were so jellied that he didn't even complain about it, and he got the feeling Sam needed to be close to him. 

He kind of wanted to be close too.


	2. Fight or Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unedited because I wanted to get this out before I go to work since it has been way too long since I started writing this and people have been waiting long enough. 
> 
> I may explore this concept more in the future as I have had a lot of fun figuring out how it works

Sam has to catch himself more often than he would like to admit. He can't help it. His brother is breathtaking. Even sitting. Standing. Spinning a pair of keys on the end of his finger. It doesn't matter what Dean does, Sam is enamoured every time. He feels the heat in his eyes before he understands their intention, silencing the thoughts in his mind that tell him to claim the precious, beautiful, funny, awe-inspiring, feisty, sexy, sleek, idyllic, incredible omega that he still can't believe is his. Not by nature. In spirit. He can't claim Dean that way. Never. It doesn't matter how loud the wolf inside screams at the atrocity of being dominated, taken, spread bare by an omega, Sam pays it zero mind. 

It took some getting used to. He enjoyed the sensations from the start. That wasn't what he struggled with. The part that had his mind, wolf and body rejecting his position was being put on his back, or on all fours, or keeping his legs spread. His jaw would tick, his claws would come out and his lips would curl in a deep-lipped snarl. 

He remembers vividly how Dean's eyes had darkened with fear when Sam slammed his palm down next to his head, the wood around them splintering and shattering. Sam heard the blood in Dean's veins stop circulating his body for a minute, sensed how cold it was, ears buzzing as Dean muttered some bullshit joke to mask how petrified he was. Sam sucked in breaths, tried to control his breathing and the need to flip their positions. His head throbbed, a groan of pain torn from his throat. He could hardly hear Dean's choked off whines of agony as Sam's hold over his weight was released, crushing Dean to the floor, pinning him. He heard the crunch of Dean's hips, the plea for him to get off, and Sam somehow found the strength to roll to the side. 

Sam recalled crawling away, naked and debauched, face sweating. Dragging his way to the bin took a lot of effort, but he managed it. He somehow reached it before he spilled his stomach, emptying it as quickly as he could so he could get back to Dean, who was struggling to contain his pain, head lifting to stare at the state of his broken hips, thunking on the floor moments later at the sight. He rinsed and repeated that for far too long. 

As quickly as he could, Sam landed at Dean's side, heart clenching from the perpetual fear hidden behind Dean's false bravado. He had to ignore it, had to black it out as he apologised again and again, hoisting Dean off the ground. Sam swallowed down the anger that Dean was nude, all of his glorious skin on display for any were to see, but he pushed through, running with all of his strength to the nearest restoration center. 

He shouted for help seconds after bursting through the door. Dean wasn't dying, Sam knew that. Seeing him in pain was basically the same thing. He had to see him better, moving, whole again. So he found a bed for him, shushed him as he rested him on there, called out again for help. They listened eventually. They blamed him. He could see it in their eyes. And they were right. It was his fault for letting go. It was his fault for not being strong enough, for not having the control over his own body, his wolf. His wolf had wanted to hurt Dean, to violate him in a way that he didn't want. Sam had tried to stop it, and in doing so, ended up breaking his hips. 

It was damned if he did, damned if he didn't. But even Dean considered his shattered hips the lesser of two evils, later on, when he came to after they healed him. Dean was playing it off like it was all good, that he wasn't thinking about it or worried that it would happen again. Sam knew he was lying. 

He was. They didn't go _there_ for a long time after that event. A long, long time. They kissed and were intimate in other ways. It wasn't the same. Sam missed Dean like a limb even when he curled up in his arms because a part of _them_ was missing. At the time, he hadn't thought that he would crave that kind of intimacy. Yes, he loved having Dean inside him, filling him, pounding his flesh, but he never thought it was something he would _crave,_ feel it deep in his bones when he caught sight of Dean's hard cock in the morning, curving up over his stomach, light snores emitting from Dean's body as he slept, unaware. 

Sam wasn't about to take advantage. The thought of that made him just as ill as the other one. It didn't stop him from wanting it. Dreaming about it. He did that a lot. Sam would find himself sitting there, spinning a pen with his thumb and index finger, imagining the stretch of his hole as Dean slid inside him. The pen would stop spinning, or snap if he was more out of it than usual. Dean would look over at him, raise an eyebrow, ask him what's up. Sam would tell him it was nothing, observe the column of Dean's throat, imagine his mark there.

When Dean finally turned Sam onto his front and stroked the tips of his fingers over his entrance, Sam screamed at his biology to not ruin the moment. It didn't. Dean prepped him so diligently. He pressed and pulled and shifted and teased until Sam was tearing into the sheets with his claws and humping the air. He couldn't stop his mouth from running, promising Dean he wouldn't hurt him, that he can behave, that he really wants it, that he loves him, that he needs him. 

Dean told him to stop being such a drama queen. Sam didn't listen. Kept insisting. Kept pleading for Dean to take him, fuck him, fix him. 

_Fix them._

It had been playing on Sam's mind from the moment he heard the crack of Dean's hips. He thought to himself that he had ruined everything. He wondered if Dean would ever trust him again. He wondered if Dean would obsess over his inferiorities, feeling like he's not enough of a were to get the job done because of how easily he shattered. 

In a sense, he was right to worry. Dean did obsess, even if he said nothing about it. He became testier, took on more of the weight of the mission than he should have in his condition. 

Sam had to let him do it. If he stepped in, tried to take over, Dean would have only felt worse about his position. He was already struggling enough with the reminder that he's not the were he was meant to be born as. Day in, day out. Sam sees it constantly, his blood boiling beneath his skin at the look of self-disgust on Dean's face as he peels out of his soaked boxers and tosses them in the hamper. 

It's then that Sam has to fight to keep down his own need, spurred on by the scintillating aroma coming from the soiled material, that he wants nothing more than to bury his nose in and inhale until he's sick with it. Dean tells him it's okay if he wants to get a room with his boxers. Sam refuses to do it. If he can't be certain that it won't trigger an _always wanting more_ response with the alpha in him, it's not worth the risk, even if it pains him every time he watches them get loaded into the washing machine.

Worse, is when he wakes up due to an assault on his senses. The calm before the storm. Dean's body going into heat, smelling like all that is good in the world, provoking a constant stream of drool, raising Sam's pulse rate to alarming levels. He leaps out of the bed in those moments, rifles through drawers until he finds the nose blockers. He secures them up his nose then wakes Dean up, throat going dry from the instant look of defeat on Dean's face. The resignation, the anger and frustration makes Sam feel utterly useless.

Then the fear sets in. The fear that Sam's going to hurt him. He knows Dean can't help it. It doesn't stop it from hurting any less. He tries his hardest not to let it bother him as he sets up the ice bath. The first of many. Sam positions himself outside the door, ignores the pull to be by his omegas side. Instead, he focuses his attention on emitting a threatening aura that only the most brazen of alphas would dare to ignore. 

A handful have. It didn't end well for them. Sam gave them fair warning. One of them pushed the envelope. They were lucky to escape with their heart still beating. 

They never talk about Dean's heats. He won't take blockers. Too many side effects deterred him from ever trying. He told Sam that some things are more important. Sam doesn't agree. Nothing or no one is more important than Dean and his happiness and wellbeing, and Sam will never apologise for that. 

"I'm not taking heat blockers, Sam. End of story. Drop it," Dean said, checking the sight on his Smith & Wesson. 

"Look… I know there are side effects. And I know you're worried they _might_ slow you down out on the field, but—"

"No buts, Sammy. It's not worth the risk."

"And you going into heat on some hunt with a bunch of unmated alphas sniffing around you, is?" 

Sam hadn't meant to snap. There was a close call a few months before. Dean's heat had hit. He collapsed. He was surrounded. Sam went feral. Luckily some mated alphas that knew about them stepped in to help. If they hadn't, Sam would have killed them all. 

"It was a one-off."

"You don't know that," Sam said, shaking his head, hands on his hips, head lowered. "If I hadn't—" It's too painful to think about. "I can't even think about it." 

Dean swallowed, closed his eyes. Sam wondered if he was being hit with a nightmare about that day because his stress levels rose with each tick and his cheeks lost more and more colour. 

"It's not exactly the first thing on my playlist either, man." 

"So why won't you take the blockers? Or, let me work and pay for your—"

" _Listen._ If there was some magic word I could say that would zap me into an alpha, I would fucking say it. But there isn't, Sam. Okay? The cost of treatment is nuts. The recovery costs are just as insane. I'll deal. Like I always have. You don't need to do anything other than be here with me, you understand me?" 

Sam nodded. It was the only thing he could do. 

He brought it up again, later, during his _Snuggly Sam_ phase after his rut dies out, as Dean has taken to calling it. It's often said with a mixture of amusement and annoyance, since the _snuggled_ happens to be him. Sam goes through a few days of intense need to be close, and Dean makes about as much of a fuss about it as anyone would expect while allowing him to curl around him and nuzzle his neck. 

"You okay?" Sam asked. 

"I'm trapped in the arms of a cuddle monster. So, y'know... peachy."

Sam kissed his nape and gave him a loving squeeze. "Thank you." 

"Don't make it awkward."

"I'm serious, Dean. Maybe one day I can fight this instinct, but I just can't right now."

Dean patted his arm, stroked the skin with his thumb, gave an exasperated sigh. "We can't all be as naturally gifted as I am at telling nature to fuck itself with a stick, Sammy."

"You're so amazing. And beautiful. And smart. And strong. And—"

"Okay, enough of that. You're gonna make me all gooey," Dean replied flatly, and Sam heard the eyeroll from behind him, as well as the shift of his lips curving up in a fond smile. "Why don't you sleep, huh? I know it was a bad one." 

"Can't. Don't wanna let you go." 

"I can assure you, octopus, that's not gonna happen. I've got more of a chance of sprouting wings than getting out of your death grip." 

"I love you so much." 

" _Stop._ Christ, dude, I heard you the first sixty times in the past hour and a half."

"But you're just so wonderful and handsome and you smell so good and—"

"I will seriously gag you if you don't shut up," Dean warned, not really meaning it but needing Sam to stop gushing. 

"Okay. I'm sorry. I love you. I just needed to say it one more time."

"Luna, take me away from here…" Dean moped and grumbled under his breath for a few minutes. "I love you, too. Now would you please shut up and go to sleep?" 

Sam shook his head, mouthed Dean's neck and breathed a sigh of unabashed contentment. "Told you. Can't. Don't wanna miss a second of this. My omega." 

The moment the words are out of his mouth, Dean tensed. 

"No. No, no, no. Dean. Not like that. Not gonna do anythin' to you. You're safe. Please tell me you know you're safe—"

Dean squeezed his hand in response, shifted back and told Sam it was okay. That's when the delirium took control of Sam's mouth. 

"If you were on heat blockers, you wouldn't have to be scared, y'know?" 

"Go to sleep." 

After some greedy nosefuls of Dean's calming scent, Sam did fall asleep. He dreamed of Dean coming back home an alpha, with a knot and everything, looking happy and comfortable in his skin for the first time since before he presented as an omega. 

===

Things have been good between them lately. No hiccups. Hunts have been kind. Dean hasn't gotten hurt, or worse. Sam knows that his next heat is coming up. Sees it in the glow of his cheeks. Feels it in the warmth of his touch. Smells it in the air. It's why he's so taken aback by what comes out of Dean's mouth. 

"I need you to claim me." 

His tone meant business, like he had already thought about it. Sam didn't know what to say. 

"Dean… I—what?" 

Dean clenches his fists at his sides. "Not like that. _Never_ like… _that._ Just trust me on this." He lays a hand over the nape of his neck. "Here. Is what I meant." 

The alpha in him revels over the idea, teeth itching to taste Dean's offered flesh. Sam ignores the desire, locks it up in a box with reinforced chains and multiple binds. Dean's not asking for _that._ He has some kind of plan here that Sam's not sure he's gotten the memo on yet. 

"You want me to bite you?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "No, Sam, I want you to draw action figures back there." 

"Okay. I'm just trying to understand what this is about." 

There's a tightness to Dean's response. "If I'm… _yours_ in the official capacity, unmated alphas won't. You know." Dean turns his back to him, runs a hand down his face. 

Sam's blood turns to ice. 

"All I can see is… How they… And I…," Dean whispers, head lowered in shame. "I'm just…" He shakes his head, strikes out and connects with the wall. "I don't wanna think about the what ifs anymore, so I need _you_ to claim me." 

Doubt roots him to the spot. What if he's not strong enough to fight his own instincts once the bond solidifies? There's no telling whether or not he won't be blinded by intense need that comes with the mating bite, the ritual that dictates that he, as an alpha, knot and impregnate his omega moments after claiming them. He doesn't want to do that. Not to Dean. Never to Dean. 

Could they recover from that? Could Sam ever live with himself after that? He doesn't think so. In fact, he knows he wouldn't. He knows he would... It's not something he needs to think about since it's not happening. Not on his watch. 

"Dean, I can't."

"Yes, you can."

Sam shakes his head, backs away from him, ignoring the nausea churning his guts. 

"There's no telling what's gonna happen if we go there. I can't risk hurting you. I won't do it." 

Even without having Dean in his sights, Sam senses the tensing of his body, hears the cries for help Dean won't dare release. It pains him to say no, to turn around and flee for the door, but it's the safer alternative. 

"Sammy," Dean starts, the floor creaking beneath his feet as he approaches. Sam feels compelled to stay right where he is, to not move, to not think, to not even breathe. He's a prisoner to that timbre, to that quiet plea that rests under years of practiced restraint. A hand reaches out, touches his shoulder. He doesn't shrug it off. He leans into it, for he can't help himself. Another hand lands on his neck. "Look at me… Look at me, please." 

There's pain in Dean's eyes. Pain over admitting that he can't do this all alone. That no matter how hard he fights his biology, he can't fight anyone else's. Any alpha that catches a whiff of his scent is always going to be blindsided by it if Sam doesn't take on the burden of claiming Dean—not that he considers it to be a burden. He's dreamt of being Dean's alpha ever since he popped his first knot, he just never thought Dean would ever ask for them to make it official. They both know what that entails, after all. 

But here Dean is, trusting him to somehow _claim_ him without _claiming_ him. Wrapping his head around that isn't easy. Accepting that there's even a shot that he's not going to mess this up for them is even harder. 

Dean is here, though. He's alive and well and asking for him to do this. How can Sam say no to that? How can he be the one to reject such an earnest request from his brother? He tells himself that he doesn't want to risk hurting him, that he's afraid of what the outcome may be, but maybe he should have as much faith in himself that Dean does? 

Can he do this? Can he make this work? Can he just bite without taking that next step? Is he strong enough to deny his alpha what it's going to see as its birthright? Sam hopes so. He needs to be strong enough to push back, to bury it under layers of cement, and keep it there for the rest of his life. It's just a matter of whether or not he can. 

"I _know_ you can do this, Sam," Dean supplies, seemingly reading his mind. "There's no one else I could ever trust with this, but you. But I need you to trust me, too. Trust that _I know_ that you can do this. Can you do that? Can you do that for me, sweetheart?" 

Sam nods and butts their foreheads together, breath fanning Dean's top lip. Dean seals a hand over the back of his neck, knocks their heads in silent agreement. A message passes between them. They've agreed to it. Dean accepts the consequences if something's to go wrong. Sam accepts his fate if said thing goes wrong. Welcomes it, in fact. 

"Turn around," Sam says, calmly, though he's anything but. 

Dean does as asked, stepping back into Sam's embrace. He tenses when Sam's hand flexes on his hip. Sam apologises, doubts that he can go through with it. Dean shushes him by grabbing his hand and tilting his neck to the side. He tells him again that he believes in him, which quiets Sam's doubts long enough for him to widen his jaw over Deans' neck. 

The smell secreting from Dean's glands is practically blinding, so tangible Sam can taste it. Dean's pulse thumps and thumps and thumps and thumps. It's so loud and distressed. Sam can hear Dean's skin wrinkling from bracing for the bite and whatever else might happen. 

Time seems frozen. Every single movement drags. The shift of Dean's skin, the catch in his throat, the sound of sweat perspiring on his forehead. Around his eyes, his nose, top of his lip. Sam can hear it all. If he were to lick the air, he's positive he would taste the salt on the tip of his tongue. 

Heat pulses from Dean's body, trailing up Sam's arm and consuming him. Sam sees a drop of his saliva land on Dean's neck. He feels more gathering at the openings of his mouth. He hears the gurgled breaths coming in and out. 

This is it. This is the moment. He has to take it. He has to bite so he can mark Dean as taken and send a message to unmated alphas. All he has to do is bite. All he has to do is break the skin, transfer his DNA, and back off. 

That's what he's hoping for. No, more like praying for. He can't be the one to lose control. Not again. He can't risk hurting Dean. But he needs to do this. Dean's asking him to do this so he needs to do this. There's no other way around this. It has to be him, they both know that. 

"Just do it, Sam!" 

Sam groans internally. He can't hold onto it, and it's released. He needs to stop hesitating. The longer he hesitates, the greater the chance is that he's going to fuck this up. 

Dean cries out as Sam's teeth pierce his skin. He curses next, repeating _sunovabitch_ to himself. A high-pitched whine comes after and Sam's stomach drops. 

"Okay, Sam. I think that's enough," Dean says.

Sam's not sure if he heard right. The room is fuzzy. His vision is hazing over. Dean's skin is warm and inviting. Addictive. Sam can smell his slick, sense the fertility levels rising. His alpha is hungry and wants to play. Dean's body is preparing itself for Sam. 

But he's not supposed to do anything, right? 

He's an alpha, though. And Dean is his omega. His beautiful omega. That means he should build them a strong family. Shouldn't he? 

Dean struggles in Sam's hold.

"You can let go now, Sam… S-Sam?" 

The next minute flits away. Sam can barely see Dean pinned on his back through the fog. He's there, though. He's pushing. Pushing on something. 

It's Sam. He's pushing him. 

"Don't do this. Don't.". The fight is weak. Sam doesn't feel it. All he feels is clothes that bring him comfort, covering a body that brings him joy. In the way. An obstacle. "C'mon, Sammy, I believe in you. Please." 

The tone hits his ears. The desperation makes him feel things. He doesn't know what those things are. There's a rumble in his throat. He's nosing Dean's neck, scenting. Scenting and marking. His. 

"Get. Off." 

No use. Won't shift. Body doesn't want to. Alpha is on the prowl. 

Sam's lips descend on the side of Dean's throat, taste the skin there. He hears a click. 

Then there's pain. 

A growl. Teeth. It hurts, but he's not threatened. 

Pressure on his ribs. Boney. Sharp. Stings. 

Dean's squeezing him. He's constricting him. He's biting and squeezing. 

Sam's hair pulls taut, another growl echoes through the room. Dean bites harder. Draws blood. He can hear both their hearts beating. So rapid. So desperate. 

The fight is on. Can't hurt the omega. Never the omega. Never Dean. Can't use full strength. Need to subdue, not harm. 

He plants a hand on the floor. Dean doesn't flinch. He binds his teeth even harder on the nape of Sam's neck. Growling. Lowly. Getting louder and louder. Sam matches him, plants a hand on the other side. Dean's knees dig deep, press down to the bone. The squeeze has more power than it did. 

It actually hurts. It actually feels strong. 

Dean's fighting. Him. With everything. Isn't Sam supposed to fight, too? Fight Dean? No. Fight himself? He doesn't know. 

He goes to raise his arm. Dean locks his jaw, growling. It's a warning, to stay still. His alpha bristles, outraged by the audacity. Another attempt to move. Another growl. Lower. Rumbly. 

Tug, tug. Sam's losing hair. He's finding it harder to breathe, too. Dean's knees are unforgiving. Dean's teeth won't stop tearing through his flesh. 

Blood. It's dripping. Splashing. Leaving smears on the floor. Dean must feel it in the back of his throat, but he's not letting go. Not for nothing, it seems. 

Dean breaks through another layer of skin. It makes him falter. He wobbles, sucking in air, letting his chest expand. 

Dean moved. He's somewhere else now. He needs to find him. Smells him but can't track. Too loud. Too much buzzing. Sheets of red in front of his eyes. 

A presence on top of him. He growls, goes ignored. Teeth are at his neck again, same place. Like they never left. Sam thrashes, growls and scratches through the floor. 

Those knees are in his sides again. They hurt. His alpha doesn't like it. It rages, feet planted firmly on the ground. He feels something clinging to his back. Must be Dean. 

Arms flail, try to grip but can't. Dean squeezes. Bites. Growls. Clings tighter. 

Desperation thickens the air. Stings. Burns his nostrils on each inhale. It strikes deep, calls out to the last shred of sanity. He can't hear it. Sam can't hear anything past his blood boiling and the rush of Dean's natural lubricant passing through his hole. 

The smell hits him, sends his head spinning as he falls to his knees and wails. Sam thrashes, swinging his arms left to right. He can't reach his prize. Dean won't let him get a good grip to turn the tables. 

His legs feel numb, vibrating. He needs to get it, to stand, take what is rightfully his—

No! 

He howls, slamming his hands on the floor, back arching to accommodate Dean's position. 

Sam pounds and bucks. Dean holds true, shifts some material. It's his. His pants. Cool air glides over his ass. 

"Ahh," Sam groans, slaps the floor again, gritting his teeth. 

Dean's fingers. Two. In him. Stretching. Pressing. 

Teeth release and he hears Dean's voice. 

"Settle," Dean tells him, lines up against that spot inside him and assaults it with vigor. Sam smells the slick on Dean's fingers. It neutralises his body, has it deflating and opening to anything Dean wants to give it. 

A growl bubbles in his throat. 

"No! _Settle,"_ Dean repeats sternly, bearing down with intent to subdue. 

The alpha in him kicks up dirt, ready to charge. He rears back, claws elongating and fangs protruding through his gums. 

"Dammit, I said _settle,_ " Dean reiterates, an edge to his voice Sam's never heard before provoking his claws to retreat. He presses on Sam's prostate like he's going to stab through it. "C'mon, Sammy. That's it. Settle for me. I've got you." 

Dean's voice. So soothing. So right. So Sam's world. 

Press after press has Sam's body rolling, hands fisted on the ground. He knocks on the wood and throws his head back, lip caught between his teeth as his alpha struggles to hang on to reality. 

There’s a battle of tug-o-war playing out in his subconscious, the difference between right and wrong held in the clutch of his hands. There’s an opposing view to both. While his biology is right to want to lash out and make Dean submit, it goes against the restraints that he placed on himself. And, while it’s wrong for his body to give in to the push of Dean’s fingers, to bend and twist in need for more, there is something so unbelievably magical about the weight of Dean inside him.

“That’s it, Sammy. Just relax for me. Let me in. That’s it. So good, Sam. My big, strong alpha.”

Sam preens at that, back bowing, hole clenching at the base of Dean’s thick digits. Dean crooks them and kneads Sam’s gland. His chest drops to the floor, arms stretching out, head turning to the side to let out breathy moans. It shouldn’t feel _this_ good. He shouldn’t be thrusting back for more. He shouldn’t be asking for it, voicing his wants and needs as his body contorts and accommodates the presence of a third digit nestling inside him.

But he does. It does. His body comes alive under the push and pull of his inner walls with each shift of Dean’s diligent fingers. Sam’s back arches, somehow able to dip deeper than it has any right to in his position, hips twisting, turning, burning for something more. 

He keeps forgetting to breathe, a slave to the sensations. It’s all too much and not nearly enough at the same time. 

The alpha in his mind’s eye sneers at him, labels him a deserter, a disgrace to his title. Sam dismisses it, happy to bear the weight of his biology‘s disappointment if it means not hurting Dean—if it means not losing what they have. He can’t be the one to ruin it. He just can’t, irrational fear turning his blood ice cold for an instant. 

Dean must sense it. Of course he does. He’s always paying attention, always being the best he can be. Sam admires that about him, tries to replicate his ideals, but it’s difficult. Their struggle isn’t the same because Sam doesn’t want to be an omega. He’s happy as an alpha. There’s no comparing how Dean feels about his own body, though Sam would like to think that with each day that passes, he grows closer to understanding him that little bit more. 

Nothing’s ever perfect. Moments can be ruined by the smallest thing, and it seems that Sam’s alpha isn’t quite ready to let this fight go. 

He feels his muscles flexing, his thighs bulging out, feet preparing to disengage him from Dean’s hold. His throat rumbles, body bristling from the continued assault of Dean’s fingers loosening his channel. Sam knows what’s coming. There’s no stopping it, either. He’s losing his grip on reality, aware that his alpha is about to snap and flip the script. 

Sam unleashes an almighty groan and yowls when his head snaps back from the yank of Dean’s hand in his hair. Dean’s inside him. Fully. So deep and so thick, throbbing in his home away from home as he shushes Sam with his soothing voice. 

The smell of Dean’s slick is overwhelming, making Sam’s eyes roll back in his head. He’s so hungry for just a taste. Just one small sample, even if he knows it’s a bad idea. 

As if Dean heard his internal plea, two slick-coated fingers settle on his tongue, and he moans from the burst of sweet, intoxicating flavours. It's like everything that has ever made Sam’s mouth water rolled into one, a banquet just for him, setting his nerves alight, heightening the drag of Dean’s cock back out of his channel before he slots right back in. 

The pounding of their flesh together rings true in the room, as if Dean’s on a mission, a mission for everyone to hear him claiming him during the mating ritual. Sam jolts with the force, cries out at the sporadic tugs to his hair that have his blood surging. 

Dean’s balls pelt his taint with each thrust. There’s sweat dripping from Dean’s hair onto the small of his back. Dean’s breathing is getting heavier and heavier as he continues to pump his hips with determination. Sam doesn’t have room to let out a sound, eyes wet-rimmed and sealed shut tight, throat bobbing reflexively, fists clenching tighter and tighter as he counts the seconds in his head. 

Dean fucks him like he’s got something to prove. To himself? To Sam? To the alpha in Sam that almost had him on his back? Sam can’t decipher it right now. He can’t so much as move a muscle, brain unable to send any amount of signals to his extremities due to the onslaught of almost violent thrusts that he never wants to see the end of. 

Grunts and groans invade his ears, fill him with pride from the knowledge that he’s, intentionally or not, the reason for them. He can hear the gnaw of Dean’s teeth into his bottom lip between sounds of arousal, knows that it’s trapped, that Dean’s eyes are closed in bliss as he pumps and pumps and pumps, hammering Sam for all he’s worth. 

Finally, his hair is released. He doesn’t have the strength to keep his head up, his sweaty forehead meeting the ground, shoved down by gravity. Sam doesn’t mind, doesn’t even feel the ache. He spasms at the pulse of Dean’s cock, focusing on the sensation of it swelling inside him. 

Dean fills him up, thrusts staggered for a mere moment, breathing shot. It doesn’t last, pace back to frantic as he takes purchase on Sam’s hips. Sam’s cock is hard and heavy between his legs, leaking clear rivers down to the floor. It’s wet there, lines of pre-come in random locations from the ferocious collision of Dean’s body into his. Sam’s balls are heavy and full, somewhat painful. He doesn’t have to worry about that, knows full well Dean will take care of him. 

A moment later, he’s proven right. Dean pitches onto his toes, lays his hands over the small of Sam’s back, and starts fucking down into him, legs spread far enough that they bracket Sam’s hips. 

The angle has Sam gritting his teeth and breathing in deep through his nose, exhaling short breaths every time Dean slides to home base. His cock jerks, pumping out fresh rounds of pre-come. He can’t keep still, shoulders twisting, hands splaying out and curling back in, lower half performing half circles that make the drag of Dean’s cock through him _even_ better. 

Dean changes his momentum then, pulling all the way out. Sam’s hole remains open, gaping, ready to be filled again. He feels a ghost of a kiss from the air before Dean spears him again and again and again, sounding like a were possessed as he watches Sam’s entrance suspended in motion, a blatant invitation for him to fill to his heart's content. 

“Never fails to turn me on that my powerful alpha-little-brother wants this as much as me,” Dean says, and Sam’s not sure it matters if he’s supposed to be listening or not, even if he is. “The fact that you like it like this, that you love it, is the sexiest god damn thing on this shitty ass planet.” 

“I do want it,” Sam replies, swallowing a moan as Dean slowly descends into him, appreciating every inch cleared. He stays like that for a minute, rolling his hips, putting his back into it, wincing at the enticing addition of his own come soaking his crown. “Always want you, Dean.” 

“I know, Sammy.” Dean leans forward, wraps his arms around Sam’s neck. He grinds, finding that angle that has Sam almost blacking out. Sam reaches up with one hand, secures Dean’s wrist gently, wanting to be touching. Dean kisses his nape, below the fold of his arms. “I know.” 

Using the balls of his feet, Dean lifts enough to pull out half way. It’s the only warning Sam gets before Dean initiates a hysteria inducing round of thrusts, seemingly inspired to fuck Sam’s body through to the Earth’s core. 

Sam’s vision starts spotting, his whole body pleasantly warmed, as though he’s lying on his side by a roaring fireplace. His skin is slick and flushed. His hair is sticking to his face. His throat is dry and achy from the constant holding of his breath and he feels like he’s about to pass out, but there is nothing that could come between this moment right now. 

Dean’s cock is his only focus. Nothing else exists but the drag of it, the pressure of it, the weight, the taste, the smell of their combined juices from inside Sam’s body. He can’t think about anything else. He’s lost the ability to care beyond the next pulse of pleasure that makes him thankful to be alive. 

His orgasm is a few ticks away, but Sam doesn’t want it, unsure as to whether or not it will end what’s happening between them. He doesn’t want it to be over. Not now, not ever. 

“It’s okay, Sam. We’re done yet,” Dean consoles him, bracing his hands on Sam’s shoulders and biting his claimed land from earlier. 

It’s all Sam needed to hear, body clenching tight around Dean. A sound of surprise springs from both of them as his knot swells between his legs, bereft of anything to catch onto. Dean gets a hand around it, massages it through Sam’s orgasm, ropes upon ropes of come shooting out of him without showing any signs of slowing down. 

He’s not tied. This shouldn’t be possible. 

Dean doesn’t seem at all disturbed by it, gathering up a handful to slather, to push inside Sam’s body with his cock. Something about the _wrongness_ of the action makes Sam keen, encouraging Dean to fuck more into his body, wanting all of their natural juices to mix inside him. 

Dean licks the remnants off his fingers, gives Sam another coating of slick to taste. As a reward? Sam doesn’t know, but he’s not going to turn down the offering. He takes Dean’s hand in his, keeps his body arched and accessible as he sucks his digits dry and mouths the pulse point on Dean’s wrist, kissing it, nosing, rubbing his cheek against it. 

Without something to catch on, Sam’s knot should have given up the ghost by now. Instead, it’s going strong, smearing the floor with more and more fluids as Dean fucks a second load into him, the pelt of his balls slick and wet. Sam can feel the fluids escaping out of him with each drag back. He’s never been this full before. 

When Dean said they weren’t finished, he wasn’t lying. He catches his breath for barely a minute, then resumes thrusting, pulling out halfway through round three to turn Sam onto his back. He kisses him with no real coordination, pumping his hips and locking their lips, letting strings of saliva exist between them until one of them licks out to break the line. 

Dean takes him on his back, on his side, on top of the table, up against the door, and finally in the shower. 

At the end of it, it’s as if a phantom force was gifting Dean with so much stamina because his legs give out and he nearly face-plants the floor. Sam catches him, thank goodness. He carefully takes him to their room and dries him off, which is when Dean comes around and complains about being babied. 

Sam puts up with him fussing for a few minutes, then guilts him into letting him take care of him with a couple of well-placed looks, and Dean eventually caves. He allows Sam to dry him, soothe his sore muscles, cook them a nice, warm meal, and is rewarded with a toe-curling blowjob Sam can’t believe Dean had the energy for. 

By way of explanation, Dean said “Now we’re even,” meaning Sam had one less orgasm than him during their marathon sex. Sam has his suspicions that it had more to do with feeling guilty about how he attacked Sam’s neck. If Dean would listen to a word he said, Sam would tell him that he’s got nothing to be sorry for because Sam would much rather Dean disable him than the alternative. 

His last thought before the day’s events hit him like a boulder to the face is he can’t believe how lucky he is to have such an amazing omega all to himself, that there’s no one else he can put his trust in to handle any situation. 

They’re not traditional. They don’t want to be. 

Sometimes tradition is overrated, anyway. 

Yeah. 

Screw tradition. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the fic. Pls let me know what you thought of it in the comments, and let me know if this is something you would be interested in reading more of. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading.


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